


Invisible Under My Darkest Cloud

by pickapersonality



Category: PVRIS (Band), SAINTE (Musician), We Are The In Crowd (Band)
Genre: Abstract, F/F, I don't know, Weird Poetry, sorry - Freeform, there's a tiny panic! reference if you're into that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickapersonality/pseuds/pickapersonality
Summary: The sun and the moon exist together, in the same sky. They gaze out towards the same blinking, dying stars, and bounce off of each other. The moon needs the sun to shine, but the sun would be so, so alone without her moon.-A short history of a shared solar system.





	Invisible Under My Darkest Cloud

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I have no clue what this is, but it's here and it wants attention. 
> 
> Title from Lighthouse by SAINTE.

Lyndsey Gunnulfsen is a goddess. 

Shrouded in black, silk dresses and blazers and velvet curtain backdrops, rising from the darkness like porcelain, ready to be thrown to marble to bounce back, stronger. She's pale, so pale, but not bleached, or faded; she's glowing, luminous, like a full moon, outshining a ceiling of ink and blinking, dying stars. Her hair, previously a sheet of rippling brown, stark from her wide eyes, now crowns her, bouncing past her shoulders in silvery golden gossamer strands. 

Lynn is like smoke, swirls of delicate silver, to be inhaled and calm, or to choke in the midst of consuming flames. She's in every cloud of white breath, tumbling from open glossy mouth into the dark air, the very night exalting in her presence. Her throne is built upon loose, spilling breaths, that she has been gifted with from every lost soul she grasps, fits back together, and flings away. 

She categorises her dreams and fears into bass and synth and piano melodies and guitar swoops, standing upon a stage in between her two fellow beings of mist and smoke, a lone angel surrounded by love she can sometimes grasp and sometimes cannot. 

Lyndsey Gunnulfsen is a lone moon, a light for the lost, wandering the ocean's skies. 

\--- 

Tay Jardine is a saint. 

Newly reformed, a bubbly, bright, glossy being, centre and forward, eyes sparkling and lips popping. Unearthly hues of pinks, greens, yellows, all coming together to form the picture she wanted: a sweet, hopeful, determined stand: we will not succumb to sadness' snide lures. 

Tay has been sucked into death's jaws and spat out, gasping and clawing through the dirt of hell to reach the ladder up, grasping it rung by rung until the fires were specks below, and Lynn's moon was above. Tay is singing now, singing with her whole heart and mind and being, and she will keep singing, until her jaw screws shut, and then she will dance, because she has known what it is like to never be allowed to sing or dance, and she would never wish that upon any person. 

There is a layer of solemnity below the bubblegum pop: a layer of icy water to slip over toes and creepy up bare calves, but it is a cooling, relieving presence, necessary, and sometimes, Tay returns to it and skims her fingertips along its surface. The ripples carve into her ribcage, but they carve away the rotting, clinging flesh there that she has not yet shed from previous, filthy claws that bore into her. 

Tay Jardine is the very sun shining above, a golden, radiant light. 

\--- 

The sun and the moon exist together, in the same sky. They gaze out towards the same blinking, dying stars, and bounce off of each other. The moon needs the sun to shine, but the sun would be so, so alone without her moon. 

And so, Lynn's porcelain hands weave through Tay's ebony hair, and the moon falls in love with the sun.


End file.
